The View from the Dipylon Gate

From the moment I agreed to shadow Peter Lawwell to record his life for a new biography, things started to quieten down.  Days passed and there was no sign of the Lawwell of legend: barking threats down the phone to newspaper editors; issuing instructions on how to report on Celtic to BBC Scotland and of course, taking his horse whip to anyone who stepped out of line.  Instead, I would go with him to one restaurant after another where he’d ignore any menu placed in front of him and simply order some scrambled eggs which he’d eat in silence before leaving the table without excusing himself and disappearing into the night, usually leaving behind members of his family, colleagues and me, always me.

Then Legia Warsaw shagged Celtic at Murrayfield and Celtic fans disgraced themselves in and outside of the ground, rioting and attacking each other.  Now I would see the real Lawwell, I thought, springing to action and hanging every journalist by the balls on butchers hooks until they promised not to report the violence, but he was nowhere to be seen.  “He’s in Europe somewhere” said Keith Jackson with a wink.

“How do you know?” I asked.
“See those two shrimps over there?” Jackson nodded towards a couple of young boys from the BBC.  “They reported an anomaly to Lawwell before the game, to the UEFA observer too.  My money’s on some administrative error and big Pete’s away to make sure it gets followed up.”
“What makes you so sure?” I asked.
“He was carrying his horse whip.”

And so it was that Legia had cocked up their team sheet but such is the luck of Celtic when it comes to this kind of thing that it could’ve been a grammatical error and UEFA would still have seen fit to award Lawwell a second chance at the Champions League and a shot at Platini’s wife.

“D’ye think they’d have done that to Barcelona?” asked Tom Devine with a snort as we sat in Stravaigin hoping that Pat Nevin wouldn’t spot us from the bar.  “Clerical errors are all very well when it’s the minnows they’re punishing but try doing that to a German team, they’d be over the French border in tanks before you could whisper Schlieffen.  Those poor Poles, trouncing our lot with six goals to one and it’s still Celtic who go through, anyone’d think it was Stewart Regan running UEFA with that kind of reasoning.”  Tom was on fine form that day, having been on the wagon for a few hours and if you can say one thing about the old bluffer it’s that when he’s not full of port, he can be quite fair, for an old bigot.  I wasn’t looking for fairness though, the Herald doesn’t employ me to be fair or impartial so I left Devine and loafed over to Hampden but I hadn’t got very far when a carriage drew up beside me and I heard a chuckle from inside.  “Jump in, Spiers” cried Donald Findlay so I climbed in and Donald tapped the ceiling with his cane and off we went towards his lodgings at 221b Baker Street in Newlands.

When we got there, Souness was sitting in front of the fire, moustache twitching with agitation.  “Ho ho!  What have we here, Spiers, eh?” chortled Findlay.  “Our good friend and agent, Mr Souness in a right old tizz, what?” and he laughed and threw his cape over an armchair.  “But what has our old chum in such a grump?  It couldn’t be boredom, could it?”
“It’s boredom” said Souness, getting up and kicking over a basket of firewood.
“Told you, Spiers.  Didn’t I tell you?” chuckled Findlay.
“Lawwell and Celtic have been having it their own way for so long now that they rarely have to intrigue” grumbled Souness.  “There are no more secret meetings, diabolical schemes, or underground lairs; so smug are they in Scottish footballs complete capitulation to them, they don’t even bother to make things interesting anymore.  This Legia situation?  Boring!  Nothing to do with Rangers or Scottish football save for the collective red neck they’re giving us all with their antics.  No, it’s just not good enough,” and he thrust his hands deep into his pockets and slumped onto a chaise longue.  Findlay, walked over to Souness and put his hand on his shoulder, “There, there, my old friend.  Don’t worry, Spiers here is going to inject some excitement into life, aren’t you Spiers, old boy?”
“Me?” I spluttered, as Findlay turned towards me and pointed his cane at me until it was resting on the tip of my nose.  “Yes, you, Spiers.  Who else could be the saviour of Scottish football but you, Graham Spiers: champion of the oppressed, defender of the poor and downtrodden, self-proclaimed best journalist in all of the land?”

“I like the sound of that,” I said, changing my mind about attempting to escape out of the nearest window.  “Could I have that in writing please?”

“Oh, Don’t worry Spiers,” said Findlay.  “After this week your name will be a by-word for courage and integrity, what else could you say about the man who is to tell the truth about Lawwell?”

“Eh?  Hold on...” I began to protest but Souness had me in a head lock and before I knew it I was in Findlay’s carriage thundering towards Hampden and a showdown that would change the face of Scottish football forever.